All Mine
by toffeeglory
Summary: "How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"
1. one

**note**: inspired (loosely-ish) by _fight club_ by the eversowonderful chuck palahniuk, who is a god in my eyes. the fight club in this fic and the fight club in mr. palahniuk's novel have differences that will be shown in upcoming chapters. i've got up to chapter four written so we'll see how updating goes. thanks go to the lovely angelica pickles.

**disclaimer**: i dun own _twilight_ or _fight club_.

**warning**: violence, dark themes from here on out.

* * *

><p>My face is pressed to the ground.<p>

Cold.

Hard.

I feel…

Gravel?

Tiny needles digging their way into my face. Sharp and sharp and so _sharp_.

Pressure on my wrist—twist—and then—crack. Only, the crack sounds muffled and my hand is numb.

My heart is in my ears. So loud. There is a river; gushing and flowing and so loud and I can barely hear the sound of frenzy and chaos surrounding me. When did I get thrown into a river? Because I am still breathing and there is no water in my lungs but there is a heaviness that I can't deny.

My eyes, they are sweating— or is that the sweat from my forehead dripping into them—

Someone is dragging me by my arm—pulling, I think my shoulder is one pull away from—

I am standing.

Only, I don't remember using my legs and why can't I move my left hand—

I am bent over, hands pressed to my stomach, staring at the damp ground in front of my sweating eyes and there is blood. And hey, I think it's my blood...

I spit and yes, the glob of red and spit and wet is my blood.

My life is on the ground before me.

And then I am angry.

And there is sound, wet skin on wet skin. A smack and a body hitting the ground, heavy.

I am on this body. I am straddling this warm body and my fists, _why can't I feel my left one?_, they are connecting with something soft and hard and wet with hills and valleys and holes and rocks.

There is a crunch and thuds and sweating eyes and I only see darkness and there is no light, there will never be light.

More yelling and I am still under the current of this river and there is rain and laughter and there is blood on my hands and more laughter and this body has stopped trying to push me off. Its hands are pounding the ground, quick and fast, and someone pulls me up into a standing position again.

My eyes are swimming in my sockets. I am dizzy and nauseous and the air is thick and I can't breathe.

And I am lost and I glance up into the darkness and see big eyes and girl and long hair in a sea of beasts.

And my hand is in the air, someone is raising it, gripping my hand tightly and shouting. I see grinning faces and laughter and teeth and more frenzy and roaring and they are waving papers in the air.

And I am laughing with them I guess because it is then I feel strange noises leaving my mouth and my stomach is moving and my shoulders are shaking and there is relief being pumped throughout my body and I see the girl again and she has a smile on her face and it is for me but I don't want it.

Because I see pity and, "You poor thing," dancing with the sweat on her girl face.

She is a kitten among lions and tigers.

There is no yarn or catnip or rest here.

Only carnage and destruction and a desire to see life extinguished by angry fists.


	2. two

**note**: thanks so much for the reviews! truly. i am shocked that anyone would take the time to read this. and shinus: stop trolling. thanks, angle. heartheartheart

**disclaimer**: i donut own _twililght_.

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><p>He looks smug.<p>

I don't remember beating his face in, but his face is beaten in.

Is it safe to assume that I beat his face in?

I am assuming.

I beat his face in and he looks smug.

I'm sitting on the asphalt floor opposite him, my body protesting every one of my movements as I bend my knees slightly to my chest to tie my laces. I'm tired and I stare at the limpness of the strings and wish to be them.

Some fuckers want to be doctors.

I want to be shoelaces.

He laughs.

"What?" I ask. My hands have minds of their own; they are gripping my laces and right over left and pull…

He laughs again.

"_What?_" I ask. Loop both sides and right loop over left loop and pull…

"Can't believe I lost out there, man."

He's cocky and I don't blame him.

You have to be.

He's four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me.

I am cocky.

"Yeah."

My shoes are tied.

My eyes are on them.

"Better to 've lost to you than anyone else."

He gets up, slinging a small backpack over his shoulder. His face contorts in pain; he is wincing and wobbling on his legs. A newborn. He limps over to me and extends his hand.

He wants a handshake.

"Thanks," he says.

I shake his hand and nod my head.

Thanks for nearly killing you?

You're welcome, I want to say.

Anytime, I want to say.

He makes his way over to the rickety stairs leading to the ground floor of the bar. His movements are slow, almost lethargic. You can't really tell, but he's dragging his left foot. This guy, I don't remember his name, he looks to be holding his breath and biting his lip. He's trying not to look like a pussy, but he can't fool me.

I know.

In the vastness of this basement, a number of light bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting warm hues of oranges and yellows onto the surrounding areas. That warmth, that light, it's welcoming. The far corners of this place look like black holes, too dark to see into. Rats scurry around in those corners, hiding. I'm always the last to leave this place so I know. I see.

Sometimes, if you stand really still, you'll feel a prickling sensation, a scurrying of tiny feet running across your forearm. So light and feathery, like words being whispered into your skin. It tickles and you want to laugh and you don't like that feeling so you swat at your arm and feel small bodies. Spiders.

But besides the darkness, besides the rats, besides the spiders, I feel safe here.

Times like these, when everyone is gone, I am safe here.

The lights furthest from the stairs start to shut off.

Even if all the lights were to turn off, I'd still be able to make my way out of here. I know this place like I know the number of stupid freckles on my face—forty-six. Twenty-three on my nose. Fourteen on my left cheek. Nine on my right. Forty-six.

I sling my athletic bag over my shoulder and my body locks up, not wanting to move. Too soon, too soon. My left hand is still numb and it feels fat and heavy and I'll probably have to get it checked out.

But I can't stand here forever, and despite my body's complaints, I move.

I move, and it hurts, but I move.

The stairs creak beneath my weight and the third one groans its familiar groan, ready to give out but it's reliable. It's damaged and splintering, but it's reliable.

I emerge from the darkness and onto the dimly-lit ground floor. The owner, he's cleaning out glasses behind the bar.

I do some sort of half-assed salute in his direction. "Time?"

"2:26."

I nod at him and he nods back at me and I head toward the exit.

Outside, it's cold and I quickly zip up my jacket.

And I hear yelling. Feminine. Loud.

My eyes shift towards a car in the lot. The guy with the beat-in face, he's pressed up against the passenger side and he's looking down at a girl. He's wide-eyed and I can tell he's scared because his shoulders are pulled up, up, up towards his ears and his chin wants to say hello to his chest.

The long hair, it belongs to that girl who doles out pity on random guys.

"… idiot, _fucking _idiot. I cannot _fucking_ believe you, _Jacob_."

Her voice is venom and hate and disbelief and grates on my nerves.

This Jacob, I now know his name, his wide eyes look over at me and the girl gets distracted because she's now looking at me and I'm looking at her and she's kind of cute with her big eyes and straight nose and glossy lips.

"Get in the car," she tells him without breaking eye contact.

He scurries into the car without hesitating and the door slamming shut breaks her hold on me because she's looking at me with suspicious eyes but I haven't done anything to her and I'm annoyed.

I start to walk away from the bar, away from the lot but the girl with frizzy hair, she's walking towards me and I don't want that.

"Hey!" She's huffing and irritated and her small feet thump on the asphalt.

I ignore her.

"Hey!" she says. It sounds like she's jogging. "D'ya need a ride?"

I shake my head and hunch my shoulders.

I don't want her near me.

Away. I want her to go away.

It's quiet for a while as I make a left turn onto the street and I don't hear her feet hitting the ground anymore.

"Who're you fighting out there?" I hear, her voice shrill and girl and intrusive and annoying.

And I don't answer.

I don't have an answer.


	3. three

**note**: your kind words. idkidkidk. THANK YOU SO MUCH. hugs and cookies to you all. and i should really say that my "writing style" isn't for everyone so if you wanna flounce, go right on ahead, i won't be offended. and this is where "my" fight club differs from palahniuk's. idkidkidkidk i hope that this chapter answers at least some of your questions.

**disclaimer**: i dun own _twilight_.

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><p>Park bathroom. That's where I am.<p>

And I must be dreaming because I can't feel my body and there's a smoky film over my eyes.

I see myself in the mirror before me.

Dark. Brooding. Eyebrows furrowed and I can't see my eyes. My face is clear of any dirt or resentment. I look like me—or how _me_ is supposed to look.

Or... I don't know.

I don't know how I'm supposed to look.

There's a meadow in the mirror. The sun casts its rays on heavy-headed flowers and damp grass. Drops of water hang off the blades and I don't know why I can see this meadow so clearly when I can also see clean me and the dirty stalls reflected in it so faintly.

I am dreaming. I know it.

She's in the mirror, in the meadow, twirling about with the ends of her long white dress in her hands. A smile graces her tiny face. Her hair, dainty and scruffy, hangs over her eyes. She's the color of cookie dough with chocolate chips for freckles sprinkled over her cheeks and shoulders.

She's barefoot. Clean. Carefree.

Then she looks at me with her blue Skittle eyes and stands still.

Her hands hold on tightly to the white material, clouds in her hands, and she's shifting from left to right like kids do when they need to go to the bathroom.

"It's my fault," she says.

Her teeth and lips are wet with red and life and she laughs.

Blood trickles out of the side of her mouth and she laughs.

It was always her fault.

* * *

><p>Awake.<p>

I'm sitting up on the park bench I slept on. What woke me up wasn't a silly recurring dream. It was a pounding in my head, small hammers banging on my mind.

My lungs, they're shriveled up. I can't get enough air into them.

I need sleep. My arms, my legs, my face, my mind, my body beg for a good night's rest.

But no.

I say, "No."

It's morning and I have things to do.

* * *

><p>Last week, it was a bar basement.<p>

Today, it's an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.

Today is next week and my left hand is still swollen.

Bruises reign over my palm; a mosaic piece consisting of light, romantic greens and deep, warring purples.

Delicate.

Intense.

My face isn't any better.

A gash two inches below my right eye reopens and bleeds every few hours. The skin around the opening feels sore and itchy and I want to rub at it, but I can't. Chicken scratches mar my left cheek from having it dragged across the floor. My left eyelid won't open all the way. I look half asleep.

My face is stained with blood, dirt, and grime. And no matter how hard I scrub at it or how much soap I use, the stains remain.

And there is ruin caressing my ears.

Yelling and screaming and spit and arms and legs flying through the air.

I'm standing on the outskirts of the circle in the middle of the room. Hands in my pocket and swiveling my neck from side to side—crack, crack.

This place is darker than most places we've been in. Bigger, too.

It helps.

With your vision impaired, you've got to be more wary. This dark, it sucks you in and doesn't let you go until you_ force_ it to let you go.

I hear bodies colliding, faces smothered into the ground, the pounding of chests, the clapping of hands, mutterings of praise. Murmurs and groans followed by cheers and laughter. The language of the hurt and the language of the amused.

There are giggles coming from a couple of girls hanging off guys who come here looking for glory. Guys huge and muscled and conceited.

Whether they'll find glory here, I don't know.

Some men flit their way through the crowd waving papers in the air, taking bets. Other men scout the strongest of the bastards fighting their monsters for all to see for their own uses. Greed and vanity and desire run rampant. In this dark, everyone's true colors show.

"…again. We're leaving," someone says.

And the voice is familiar.

I turn to see the girl with frizzy hair, up in a ponytail today, pulling on the arm of that guy from last week.

Jacob, I think.

They're ten feet away from me and I wonder how I didn't notice them. He stands next to her, his eyes trained on the eye of the storm, the center of the circle. His face is grave and serious. I know what he sees because it's what I see.

He shakes her off him and proceeds to bend over and take off his shoes.

_No shoes, no shirts._

The girl, she backs away from him. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at his back, her head held high. She's small next to him, and again I am reminded of a kitten, only this time she's fuming.

She glares and glares and glares and I don't know why I'm so interested in her indignation.

My eyes must have been on her for too long because next thing I know, it's her glaring eyes I'm staring into.

It's dark but they are right there and they are all I see.

Her face softens into a small grimace and her eyes dart to the floor and then back to me.

Flying arms and legs, hate and anger, and this girl is walking over to me.

She's walking over to me and she's standing in front of me and she says, "You."

Like she knows me, but she doesn't.

She doesn't.


	4. four

**note**: sorry for the wait. unbeta'd. i am sorry. :( i'm at my parent's so it's kinda hard to write with them breathing down my neck. anyway. thanks for the kind words! hugs to you all. happyfacehappyfacehappyface

**disclaimer**: i don't own _twilight_.

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><p>I'm at least a head taller than her and the look she's giving me, I am eight years old again.<p>

She's saying, "You."

She's rolling her shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest.

"I remember you," she continues, bathed in faint light and swimming in shadows. A light sheen of sweat covers her small face and I want to smell her skin. "From last week. You're the guy. You could have killed him. My friend… he could have died."

Her eyes are on my eyes.

"Did he." There is no lilt to my voice. My hands dance a little jig in my pockets.

She's frowning and lost and staring at me with funny eyes. "Did he what?"

"Did he die."

The frown sets more definitely into her face and she purses her lips. She looks like a fish with frizzy hair and clothes and breathing air.

"Look." Through annoyed lips. "He's really hurt."

I look over to him, this Jacob with droopy eyes and bruised left side and fucked up back, and yeah, sure. He's hurt. I did it. He practically kissed my hand for doing it.

"Okay."

She's wearing exasperated eyes now.

"He shouldn't be here. This is illegal."

I look to the center of the room and see a shrimp versus a bear. This guy with massive hands, he's wailing on the pipsqueak he's up against. The small guy's got a nosebleed and he's trying to duck out of the way but he's too slow. Blood runs down his forehead and from his nose. Red lines racing into his eyes and storming his mouth. He takes several punches to the face, wobbles on his stick-thin legs for a few seconds but remains standing.

"Okay." My remarkable conversational skills.

Pipsqueak, quick and jerky, manages to dart behind him. He's climbing up his back and throwing punches at his neck.

Out of my peripheral vision, I can see she's looking at them, too. She opens her mouth, "Buh," and then closes it.

Next thing you know, both guys are on the ground and the little guy is smashing the other guy's face in. Sweat and dust mingle in the air, catching the small amount of light as they disappear into the dark. A roar of laughter erupts throughout the crowd.

"I just…" Searching for words she can't find. "He's just a kid… he won't listen to me."

Frizzy hair and long neck, she's watching me like she's expecting me to do something about it. She's placing hope on my shoulders and I don't know what to do with it at all.

A round of applause breaks out around the room and I think that Pipsqueak has won—and yeah, he's won. One of the older guys is holding his limp, bloody arm up in the air.

I turn back to her and raise my eyebrows. "You… do this often, then."

"Do what often?"

"Chat up your friend's would-be killer."

And I can't help it but a corner of my lip hooks up a tiny bit. And this hook is for her.

Confusion oozes out of her pores.

"You offered me a ride last time." I remind her. "And now you want my help. Like you said, I could have killed him."

This girl's got a thing with opening and closing her mouth. I half expect her jaw to come unhinged.

Another fight begins.

"I wouldn't be asking," she finally gets out, "if it weren't for the fact that you're the only one I kno—"

"I don't know you." And it's true because I don't.

She's clenching one of her fists against her chest and all I want is for her to punch me with it. For her to slap me because I can feel frustration and desperation settling into her bones.

She bites her lip, almost like she's trying to hold something back. An insult? I don't know.

Her mouth is a small cave and then it is not and then it is.

Air whooshes out past her lips, a fluttering of her eyelids, and then, "Bella."

She says, "My name is Bella.

"Look, I knew he was up to something shady, I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach. He'd disappear for hours… and then I find him doing this, this," she's gesturing to the crowd and the noise and the chaos with a stiff hand and she sighs, "whatever it is you guys do here. He's a kid. He could die."

It's hard for me to look away from her. Her with her story I don't want to hear but not wanting to shut her up. Her ponytail swings at the back of her head in a lazy manner and I am hypnotized by the movement and her ramblings.

"By all means," Bella goes on, "feel free to continue with your pissing contest. Go ahead and beat the living crap out of each other, you guys really seem to enjoy it. But Jacob is sixteen and if he gets any more hurt, I'll be making a special phone call."

Her threat, her silly threat, those words spill from harmless lips, hang in the stale air. Foolish words and coming from her, I want to laugh.

But she's got feeling, she's got passion behind those words, in her stance. Me, I haven't had too much interaction with people and this, whatever she's saying, it's… clear.

Clear and ringing in my ears and something inside me splinters and cracks.

I don't know what makes me do it but I find myself saying, "Okay."

I'm saying, "Okay," and, "Alright."

I'm walking up to Jacob, Jacob with baby skin and baby mind. I'm telling him, "C'mere, kid," and heading for the exit.

Outside the warehouse, the sound of water lapping at the edge where the ocean kisses land. A cargo ship trudging along far off in the distance. Crickets chirp and I want to find every last one of them and stomp them into bits and pieces. I kick at the dirt and rocks with my hands in my pockets. My left hand throbs and my eyelids are heavy.

Staring up at the night sky, staring up at big, staring up at stars millions of miles away, I am little, I am insignificant, I am young compared to old everything.

"You need something?" I hear from behind me.

My head bobs up and down, slow, eyes transfixed by the sky, and I say, "Don't fight tonight."

More crickets chirping and I don't know why I'm doing this. The unknown is clawing at my insides.

"Why?" I can see the frown in his voice.

"Your friend."

He's kicking at the ground.

"She followed me here," he grumbles. Sixteen shows in his voice.

"You're just a kid. What are you doing here?"

He scoffs and it's petulant. His feet shuffle against small pebbles and he says, "I'm fighting tonight."

"You do that," I say. "She's threatening to call the cops."

"She's stupid." But his voice trembles with uncertainty. "She wouldn't."

"She sounded pretty serious to me."

"She says stuff she doesn't mean. I'm fighting tonight."

I'm shrugging my shoulders, enraptured by the stark horizon. Where the sky ends and the ocean begins. Where the ocean ends and the sky begins. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why not?" Sixteen in his tone and words. I try not to get angry because I had Sixteen voice, too and sometimes, even now, it's hard to keep away.

I turn to look at him like he's stupid because he is. "She could get into some serious trouble."

And if he didn't know like he should've known, he knows now.

"Jacob," I'm saying, "just come back next week. Without the girl."

"Bella," he says.

"Bella," I parrot.

He's cursing underneath his breath, harsh and frustrated, but he gets it.

We stand in silence for what feels like centuries and the quiet, the night, the air, all this everything that leads to me standing there with something burrowing its way into my mind. I don't know what it is but I am drained and tired and tonight, at this moment, I don't want to hurt or be hurt.

I want to sleep this away. I want to sleep until the ants crawling and biting underneath the skin of my bruised hands and bruised face all die out.

Bella finally exits the warehouse. The door clicks into place and her feet scuff at the ground. She's carrying a large jacket and bag and she looks tiny.

She shifts her eyes to Jacob and then to me and then to Jacob and then to me and then to some far-off place.

Back to me and she's asking, "Ride?"

And me still confused and saying, "Yeah."

"Get your stuff. I'll bring the car around."

* * *

><p>The heater rumbles throughout the enclosed space of this ancient car. Warmth hits me in the face, a steady stream of air, and I want to swallow this feeling.<p>

Jacob's body occupies the entire backseat. His nose serves as a whistle as he breathes in and out with the peace of sleep. It's only children that can fall asleep so easily.

Whistling. Tires maneuvering through the port. Girl sighing.

She's got pale hands on dark steering wheel. Small body in big seat. Eyes on dark road.

"He lives with me," she mumbles, quiet and relaxed. "I mean, he's staying with me while he's on vacation… Not that Port Angeles is really anywhere to vacation to."

Shifty eyes to me and back to the road. A clearing of her throat.

"He was supposed to be staying with me for six weeks." The sigh she lets out is long. "This is his third and I don't think I'm comfortable with him staying if this keeps up, but I don't want to send him back to his dad looking like this and have him get in trouble. He's a good kid, but he easily loses his way. You know? He once shaved all his hair off because 'all the other kids were doing it.'"

Am I expected to say anything? Because I have nothing. I am lacking in speech and my hands curl in my lap.

"I'm a rambler," she rambles on. The lights of the dashboard play across her face, more night and shadows, more artificial light. "Sorry. Is that annoying? I don't know you, you don't know me, so I'm sorry. And I didn't really mean that whole you-could-have-killed-him thing. I just got really worried and scared for him. You're not the type. To kill, I mean."

But she doesn't know me and I don't like it that she keeps acting like she does.

"Not the type?" I ask.

Her hands come off the wheel to grasp at words escaping her. "You just don't have that look about you."

I'm feeling off, weak, ready to lie down in the middle of the road. I don't want to argue.

"So, uh, where to?"

"Just drop me off at Lincoln Park." And speaking makes my limbs grow heavier.

"You sure? I can take you where you need to go."

"Lincoln Park."

Stillness and then, "Alright."

* * *

><p>"Thanks." Because I am not all rude and I am where I need to be.<p>

I'm opening the car door, standing outside, the smell of wet and grass and dirt and trees assaulting my nose. I'm ready to slam it shut.

"Wait," she calls out.

Tonight, I am strange. I hunch over so that we are level.

She looks easy and good and sweet and petite as she rests her head on top of her hands still holding onto the steering wheel. Big, tired brown eyes, all knowing and not knowing.

"Thanks for tonight…?" Her voice goes up at the end.

Tonight, I am strange. It's my mind churning and aching to grab at something real and now and here. It's my insides swimming in a murkiness that's always there, infinite and deep and bitter. But I still don't know.

Strange, not knowing me, I'm saying, "Edward."

I'm saying, "My name is Edward," through a frown.

I shut the door.

* * *

><p>Tonight, it's her again, her with the cookie dough skin, but it's different.<p>

She's here at the Single Adult Shelter with me, sitting by my bed on the floor with her legs crossed. She's small so it's a surprise I'm able to see all of her from this level, but then again, this is a dream and it doesn't have to make sense. What little light passes through the large windows dances across her face.

"Criss-cross applesauce," she repeats over and over again. Her hair is messed up, sticking up in different directions. "Spoons in the bowl, spoons in the bowl."

She's only ever in my dreams now and I wish she wasn't.

I'm a kid or something because my legs that almost reach the end of the bed, they're short and thin and barely-there. The socks I know I was wearing, they're gone.

My hands are small and they clutch at the sheets, bringing them up to my chin. My body is cold and I can feel trepidation in my throat and hands and legs and stomach.

She pats my cheek. She is bleary.

"It's alright, it's alright," she says, the always present blood spilling from her lips. Her teeth are red and pointy and my eyes are trained on them.

"Too much," she mutters, patting at my forehead. "It was bound to happen."

She laughs, the sound of bells and wind chimes and sunshine, and her blue eyes sparkle.

But soon, her snorts and giggles turn into snot and wailing. And there are tears running down her cheeks and onto the floor and the way her face is screwed up, it's scary.

In this dark, she is ugliness and beauty all wrapped in one.

And in that moment, like every other moment, I hate her.


	5. five

**note**: hugs and cookies and kisses go to those that are reading this silly story. lovelovelove. i don't know how updating will go for the rest of the year because i have a difficult schedule this quarter. :( so, i'm just going to go with the flow. aaaanddd thanks, pickles. :3

**disclaimer**: i don't own twilight.

* * *

><p>He's straddling my stomach.<p>

And for a second, my mind shuts off. For a second, I am.

I just am.

I can't hear anything aside from the deafening heartbeat thundering in my ears. Everything I see is coated in a jello-like substance, distorted and slow-moving. I'm trying to focus on any one thing but I can't, I can't, and my eyes are dead and lingering.

Demanding eyelids, they don't like being forced, and I just want to close my eyes and in this second, I am nothing.

I just am.

But the second is up and my heartbeat is gone; a whoosh, and I can see.

A glow surrounds him. His head is blocking the light and anger and glaring eyes live on his face.

A halo of orange and yellow and warm around him and this anger, it's almost angelic.

He's getting heavier and heavier and I feel weak and I don't like this. My fists come into contact with soft and wet fat and then there is a hand at my throat.

Thick fingers wrapping around my throat and they're long and rough and his thumb is pushing into my skin. Digging and digging and digging and it hurts and I can't breathe.

I can't see, everything is blurry, and I'm trying to tell you that I can't breathe, asshole.

I can't see, my eyes are fucked up, I think they've exploded, and you have to let go.

But he's grunting and he keeps pushing.

Gargling and choking and my hands come up to push his hand away but I can't. Blunt fingernails burrowing into slippery skin, trying to communicate what I'm screaming in my head through my hands and it doesn't work. I'm kicking my legs and panic bubbles in my throat and his hand is at my throat, I can't breathe.

I can't breathe and this panic spreads to my eyes and hands and legs and I'm desperate and _I don't want to fucking die_.

Blood roaring in my ears and watery eyes and my hands go to slap at hard and flat. My desperate fingers think for me.

And.

The hand at my throat, it disappears.

And.

The weight on my body, it disappears, too.

That first breath I take, it's deep and loud and I can feel the pull for air all the way down in my toes. I'm free and light and floating on a concrete-and-gravel cloud. Coughing and not thinking, I _do_. I just _do_.

My thankful eyes are closing; ears assaulted by primal screams not meant for me. I'm wheezing and sweating and alone and curling up and greedy for air. My reward.

I lost.

* * *

><p>The cold air bites at the open wounds on my face and I have to keep myself from wincing.<p>

"Stings, doesn't it?"

Hearing her voice, it's akin to chewing my way through a roll of aluminum foil. My entire body buzzes.

She laughs.

Fists in my jacket pockets, my shoulders are hunched, and I'm slightly dizzy. I've been ignoring her for the past few blocks and I'm not about to change that.

Tune her out. I should be used to this.

Tonight's meeting was back at the bar. It's only when the guys who call the shots get paranoid about having the cops on their asses that we're ever anywhere else. There, that basement, that's where it all started for me. When we're there, I am uninhibited and I am me and I am not me. A part of me lives and a part of me dies. I have won and I have lost.

It's one of those nights.

I (am) lost.

I haven't lost a fight in a while and the feelings that come with losing, you don't get used to them. On that basement floor, my thoughts were ugly and disquieting and loud in my head, tearing each other to shreds. Trying to force something on me and that something, I don't want it. My face and neck and hands sweating and I couldn't stand to be there. I left.

And she was outside waiting for me. Despite my surprise, I didn't even blink. I saw her, I walked right past her, and she laughed obnoxiously and followed after me.

It's past midnight and I'm walking through the empty streets of downtown Port Angeles. A dog barks frantically far off in the distance under the cloudy night sky. The thrums of the lampposts are low-pitched and soothing. No one is with me, I am alone, but no matter which way I say it or how ever many times I repeat it, I know it isn't the truth. I can hear her skipping behind me and her humming. It's awful, and inside, I am violent. My mood and her, they don't mix well.

"Long time no see, Edward," she says. "How's Mom? _Wait_. You wouldn't know."

She laughs again and the buzzing inside me intensifies.

I keep walking.

"I saw you lose back there." Another laugh. "You were lying there like some puss—"

"Fuck. _Off_." I snarl and my fingers burrow into my palms and my steps are furious.

"You _can_ talk!" Her gasp is dramatic and condescending.

I stop walking and turn to face her.

We're standing near the entrance to an alleyway. She's much closer to it than I am, short and girl and messy hair and muted blue-eyes and arms over her chest. A nasty smirk lights up her mostly-shadowed face.

"How'd you find me?"

It's been a month, a month in which I've managed to avoid her. I'm overcome with unease, it's in my gut, as is the norm when we're together and it's pushing me to talk to her.

She rolls her eyes, pompous as ever. Her eyes widen with fake astonishment.

"A little birdy told me."

I am nauseous and my throat hurts and I can't stop. "Why did you?"

She's shrugging, smiling, swaying from side to side. Her face tells me she's keeping a secret.

"Dunno." Her smile widens. "I missed you."

The sidewalk is interesting. I'm counting the number of cracks in the pavement. I'm containing myself, I'm bottling myself up. The urge to lash out, it's there, but I'm reigning it in.

I'm saying, "Well, don't."

I'm saying, "Leave me the fuck alone."

She laughs, all she ever does is laugh. She bows down at the waist so that she's obscuring what my attention is actually on, she's in my line of vision.

"When will you realize it's time to go home? That you need to quit doing this thing you're doing?"

I'm saying, "I am home."

I'm saying, "Fuck off."

I turn to continue my journey down desolate streets. I know her. If she wasn't irritated with me before, she's irritated with me now. Her anger, it's not something I want to stick around for. Me and her, angry together, no good can come of it.

For a second, it's silent. For a second, I feel as normal as I think I should be. For a second, it's just me, streets, and humming lights.

And then.

"Get OVER yourself!" she yells. She's exploding. Her voice grazes unreachable decibels and tiny feet stomp the ground, heavy for such a small person. Meaningless letters, words, sounds, they're garbled, and she screams with her mouth closed.

I look back, expecting to see her face red and scrunched up and vicious, but all I see is her retreating figure. She's walking back in the direction from which we came, her posture stiff, and the dark engulfs her.

_Stop her._ My thoughts are small and wispy whisperings in my ear. But I don't. I don't stop her. Something tells me I don't want to do that.

And I'm sweating.

My stomach is churning, roiling, devouring itself. It wants to expel everything it contains within itself and everything else in my body. Eyes are crossing and I keep walking but my legs aren't working. Fumbling, I am fumbling, and I have to—I need to lean against some—

The scraping sound my bag makes against a wall and I am leaning against it.

"Hey!" I hear.

But my eyes close and—


End file.
